


The Vow

by onwards_outwards



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Elide's Feeling Guilty, Elorcan, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Lorcan Salvaterre - Freeform, Lorcan is in love, Married Life, Nightmares, Post-Canon, elide lochan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:53:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28066542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onwards_outwards/pseuds/onwards_outwards
Summary: A year after the war, everything in Elide Lochan's life is finally falling into place. She has her rightful title of Lady of Perranth, friends that are more like family, and a husband who she loves more than anything.The only problem? She is mortal and her husband is very much not.At least, not yet.
Relationships: Elide Lochan/Lorcan Salvaterre
Comments: 45
Kudos: 93





	1. The Nightmare

It’s been a year since the war ended.

A year since Aelin Galathynius, the rightful Queen of Terrasen, regained her title and throne.

A year since Perranth gained a young, new Lady and her towering, dark warrior as its Lord.

_Almost_ a year since the hasty marriage of said Lady and Lord.

A year since the pieces of Elide Lochan’s fractured life finally began to fall into place, since she found her family, since she found the love of her life – and yet she still has nightmares.

Elide sees these night terrors as one last challenge to overcome, the last hurdle to jump before she is settled in the perfection of her new life. After all, she’s married to her favorite person and dearest friend, reclaimed her rightful title from her uncle, has a group of friends as close as family. All that’s left now is the matter of Lorcan’s immortality – an issue that Aelin and Yrene are researching how to remedy – and her nightmares.

In her frequent letters, Yrene assures the Lady of Perranth that it’s an all too normal reaction to the types of abuse and violence Elide has seen in her life.

When Aelin visited Perranth early in her reign, Elide made the mistake of mentioning the matter to her queen, who gave her a speech about Elide’s perseverance and courage so fervent it left the Lady of Perranth a blushing, embarrassed mess. That night, even taciturn Rowan had pulled her aside to tell her even the most fearsome warriors have nightmares.

“And I know,” he had said, a sly grin playing at his lips, “Because _you_ are the most fearsome warrior I’ve ever met.”

“Don’t let Aelin hear you say that,” Elide muttered, trying to appear sarcastic, unbothered, but his words _had_ made her feel better.

But words, as well-meaning as they may be, can do nothing to combat the terror that seizes at her very bones, leaving her immobile and trapped in her own body as her mind relives her worst memories – and her best - night after night.

Some of her memories remain untouched, already terrible enough on their own – like when she wakes in her tower in Perranth, cowering against the wall as the guards outside make their threats, her ankle shattered and throbbing. Or those horrible days she'd spent in that prison in Morath, the soldiers’ hands rough and entitled on her skin.

But other times, her nightmares twist her memories like the mirrors lining her old fortune-telling wagon: she’s in the swamp, weeping as Lorcan drops his shield, but Aelin doesn’t intervene as Fenrys rips out his throat. Or she’s on that beach, watching Aelin get dragged away before Maeve carves out Lorcan’s heart. Sometimes she’s on the battlefield at Anielle, and she doesn’t reach Lorcan in time. The water overtakes her, but she doesn’t drown – she just watches, alive and unable to scream, as Lorcan’s limp, pallid corpse floats towards her, his dead eyes staring into hers.

Every nightmare is its own special kind of torture, but they all leave Elide’s body frozen with fear. Unable to thrash or cry or scream. Even when she manages to drag herself halfway back to consciousness, her arms won’t obey her, her eyes won't open, her fingers won’t crawl over the few inches of silk separating her from her only salvation: Lorcan.

Tonight Elide should have slept beautifully.

Her belly is full from dinner – a sensation she might never get used to – and afterwards, Lorcan had taken her for a walk in the gardens, away from the prying eyes of the servants and courtiers that watch them everywhere else in the castle. His laughter had rung out over the grounds, sending disgruntled birds from their roosts. At Elide’s playful chiding, Lorcan swept her up into his arms, vowing to make her regret her scolding once they got back to their chambers.

Always a man of his word, Lorcan had made good on his promise.

The last thought the Lady of Perranth had before sleep claimed her, naked and warm and safe in her husband’s arms, was, _I don’t deserve a life as perfect as this._

Apparently, her nightmares had agreed.

Elide is dimly aware that she’s dreaming, but she can’t force herself to wake. She can’t force away the fear that courses through her veins, crawling up her bones as a heavy hand knocks on the door of her tower. Looking down, she sees the tattered gown she’d worn for the majority of her youth, several inches too short at the ankles and far too tight across her breasts. A manacle sits heavy and uncomfortable around her leg; she tries to stand, only for a scream to rip through her throat.

Her ankle is newly broken and the weight of the iron against the shattered bones sends arrows of agony through her body. The knocking continues, getting louder and louder. Elide sobs, pressing herself closer to the wall of the tower.

The part of her that is the Lady of Perranth realizes that she must be reliving some memory from the years before she was dragged to Morath; the part of her that is Lorcan’s wife, that survived the war, tells her that the worst that will happen is a leering guard will come make some vague, lewd threat and leave again.

But the part of her that is Elide, the lonely, imprisoned child, is too terrified to hear reason. She trembles, wishing she could melt into the wall behind her; hinges scream as the door swings open. The figure of a gargantuan man looms in the doorway, silhouetted against the light of the hallway beyond.

The voice of her uncle – the voice that haunts all of her nightmares – floats through the air as the figure takes a step over the threshold. Elide still can’t see his face, just the outline of his enormous body against the light flooding into her dark, dank chamber.

“Oh, Elide,” sighs her uncle, stepping through the doorway behind the stranger, “You’ve been misbehaving again, haven’t you?”

“No, no,” she whimpers, cringing away from the approaching man. _He’s going to kill me, he’s going to kill me, he’s going to kill me_ , she thinks, desperately tugging at the chain fused to the wall. “No, Uncle, I’ve been good. I’ve been good, I swear.”

“Ah, Elide,” says Vernon. She can’t see his face, but she can hear the smile in his voice. “I don’t believe you have.”

The man takes a step forward. Another. Another. Completely undisturbed as she quietly pleads for mercy, for forgiveness. Elide thinks of Finnula, her mother, her father – desperate for her last thought to be of something pleasant.

When the stranger comes to a halt in front of her, she hesitantly raises her face to look up at him. Moonlight streaming in from her single window illuminates his features and she can finally see his face. Recognition breaks over her like a cresting wave; a sob tears through her throat, but not from fear. From joy.

“Lorcan!” she cries, jumping to her feet before she remembers her broken ankle. Elide crumples back to the floor. But not even the shooting pain of her injury can wipe the grateful smile from her face.

Her mind is still clouded with the dim logic of her dream; she doesn’t think to herself, _If Lorcan is here, why isn’t he killing Vernon?_

_If Lorcan is here, it means Vernon is already dead, locked in that chamber in Anielle._

_If Lorcan is here, why am I not already in his arms?_

All she knows is that the face in front of her belongs to the man she loves and that if he’s here, nothing bad will happen to her. Even the overwhelming dread of her nightmare can’t take that from her.

That is, until her uncle opens his mouth.

“You’ve been so, so selfish, Elide,” he says, his voice almost pleasant, “Such a selfish girl, asking her husband to die for her.”

“What?” she gasps, twisting this way and that, hoping to catch Vernon’s eye, but he’s nowhere to be seen. His voice floats through the air as if the walls themselves are speaking. “What do you mean? Lorcan, help me! Love, help me!”

But Lorcan doesn’t move. He stares down at her with a coldness she hasn’t seen on his face since they met in Oakwald.

“How long has he lived?” says her uncle, sounding amused, “Five centuries? And you’re asking him to throw it all away. How much longer could he live, if not for you demanding his death? How much will he miss when he ties his life to yours? Like a flea asking a lion to lay down his life. Shameful, Elide. Shameful.”

“No, no, no,” she says, grabbing at Lorcan’s ankles, his knees, any part of him she can reach, “I’m not asking – I never asked – that’s _not_ …Lorcan, _look at me_! Lorcan, please!”

“Don’t play the innocent now,” snaps her Uncle’s voice, growing louder and louder, “You’re _happy_ to let him die! You call that love, Elide? You call that loyalty? You’ll never understand love; all you know is greed. Pride. Dirty, rotten _selfishness_.”

“No!” she screams, clinging to the fabric of her husband’s pants as he raises a hand, a blade glinting in the moonlight, “Lorcan, don’t do it! Don’t listen to him! Look at me, love; it’s me! It’s _me_!”

Her uncle’s laugh echoes through the circular room like some demented chorus. “Still so selfish, niece,” he says, like he’s fondly scolding a child, “Still fearing for your _own_ life? No, you asked for his death, so his death you will have.”

The sound that leaves her is so much worse than a scream, wordless and primal, full of fear and pain. But Lorcan doesn’t hesitate. His black eyes never leave hers as he raises the blade and sinks it cleanly into his chest. His blood falls on her face, so warm in the freezing tower it steams, before his body crumples into her lap.

Her uncle’s laugh grows louder and louder until it feels like her ears are bleeding. Lorcan’s limp body is too heavy to hold and he slides unceremoniously off her lap onto the floor. His eyes stare unblinkingly up at her – hard and accusing and hateful.

_You did this,_ they seem to say, _You did this to me. You and your selfishness._

“No, no, no,” she sobs, rocking back and forth, the pain in her ankle forgotten. She grabs at his shoulders, trying to hoist him back into her arms, but his body is already stiff, unyielding. “No, Lorcan, no. Lorcan, Lorcan, Lorcan –”

She can’t breathe, can’t hear, can’t move. Why is her heart still beating? Hasn’t it realized there’s no point to its rhythm anymore? Not with Lorcan _dead_. Lorcan, her Lorcan, the only thing that matters, the only thing that’s ever mattered, the only –

“Elide!”

She wakes with a gasp so loud it hurts her throat. A scream follows – half-hearted and confused, but still a scream – because someone’s _on_ her and she has to get back to Lorcan, she has to find him, to help him…

“Elide, it’s me. It’s Lorcan. Breathe. Listen to me. To my voice. It’s me, love, it’s me.”

She recognizes the voice with a warm wave of relief, but she still hesitates. It’s dark and she can’t make out the man’s face above hers; besides, in the tower she _saw_ Lorcan. She watched him…watched him…

“It’s not real,” says the voice that may or may not belong to Lorcan.

A large, calloused hand gingerly presses against her cheek. It’s the lightest of touches, barely a brush of skin against skin, but she recognizes the warmth. The slight hesitation that remains even after a year of marriage. The hand moves upward and soon she feels long, nimble fingers running through her hair, massaging her scalp.

Just the way she likes it.

Just the way Lorcan does it.

“It was a nightmare, Elide. It’s over now. You’re here, in our bed, with me. Nothing’s going to get you. I’m here, Elide. I’m here.”

Elide raises a trembling hand and runs her fingers over the face that is slowly coming into focus. She traces the sharp curves of his jaw. The indent of an ancient scar on his chin. The shape of his full lips, downturned in concern. His long nose, lingering on the bump in the middle. His unfairly long lashes, then the thick, dark brows. Finally, she runs a hand through his hair. Soft and long and loose, just how she likes it.

“Oh, Lorcan,” she sobs – sobs from relief and terror and hatred and love – such deep, deep love it hurts. “ _Lorcan_.”

His arms wrap around her, smoothly lowering himself back onto the bed and pulling her face-first against his chest. Elide tucks her head in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar smell of his skin – sweat and leather and something like amber – as if it’s the only air she needs.

“Shh,” he whispers, his lips pressed against the top of her head, “Shh, Elide. It’s all right. It’s over now.”

“I’m so – I’m so sorry, Lor-Lorcan,” she says, embarrassed of the tears that land on his skin but able to stop them. Elide snakes her arms out from where they’re pinned between their bodies and wraps them around Lorcan, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin, his blood coursing beneath. “I’m – I’m just so – so sor-sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he murmurs, running a hand up and down her back in a soothing rhythm, his fingers brushing over every knob of her spine, “You were terrified, Elide. Worse than usual.”

Though her body freezes while she’s in the midst of a nightmare, preventing her from reaching out for him, nothing can hide her scent from his Fae senses. It’s her one salvation from the night terrors, knowing that she only has to wait for the scent of her fear to grow strong enough to wake Lorcan.

Because once Lorcan’s awake, nothing can hurt her.

Once Lorcan’s there, everything is all right.

_Thank Annieth for that Fae blood,_ she thinks.

Then, with a jolt, she realizes: _The very Fae blood I want to take from him._

It hadn’t been her idea, of course, to bind their lives. It had been Lorcan who, after the final battle of the war, swore to renounce his immortality and merge their lives, turning himself mortal. For her.

It had been _his_ idea – but Elide never questioned it. Never told Lorcan to reconsider his vow, not even before their wedding. To this day, never told Aelin and Yrene to stop their research into spells and rituals that might strip him of his immortality. Never stopped to think twice about what aging would _mean_ for him – that it would lead to his _death_.

Vernon was right.

She _was_ selfish.

“Was it the Ilken?” he prompts, his voice gentler than she could ever have imagined it could be. Her heart swells in her chest. Lorcan, so comfortable in silence, always asks her about her nightmares. All because she once made an off-hand comment about how much it helped her to explain what she saw.

After that, he asks every night without fail, listening with a mixture of concern, grief, and love on his face as she details the horrors that chase her through sleep.

“No,” she says, pressing closer to him, half-wishing she could just crawl inside his skin, “It was…it was my uncle. And…you.”

Lorcan’s arms tense around her. Preparing himself.

“You died.”

He sighs into her hair before pressing a sweet kiss to the top of her head. “Elide,” he says, the word barely more than a breath, but she continues.

“And there was b-blood, Lorcan – _your_ blood, and I-I-I couldn’t stop it – I couldn’t help – it was my – my – my fault, all my fault, I –”

“Elide,” he says, grabbing her chin and lifting her face up to his, “Elide, stop. Breathe.”

She nods, latching onto the sound of his voice and forcing herself to take a deep, trembling breath.

“Good,” he murmurs. His hand leaves her chin and she almost whines at the loss of contact, but his hand quickly finds one of hers and raises it to his neck. He presses her fingers against the artery pulsing beneath his skin. Understanding dawns over her. Elide snakes her other hand to rest on his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart against her palm. “I’m here. I’m with you. No one – _no one_ – is going to take me from you, Elide.”

“I know,” she says over a gasping sob, trying to control her breath, “I know. It was just…”

“Look at me,” he says gently, waiting until she does as he asked to continue, “I will love you, always. And I will be with you. _Always_.”

Lorcan dips his head to softly press his lips against hers. She immediately melts into the kiss, hungry for the comfort his touch brings.

“You will never be alone in this life ever again,” he whispers against her lips, his hand cupping the side of her face, “Wherever you go, I will follow.”

She feels his face shift as he smiles, and she knows what’s coming. Together, as one voice, they say, “I will always find you.”

Elide leans back enough to look him in the eyes, grinning despite the tears still welling in her own. “I promise,” she whispers, echoing his words from so long ago back to him.

He hums, satisfied, and presses another quick kiss to her lips before untangling himself from her arms. This time, she _does_ whine, scooting over to claim the warm spot in the sheets he’s left behind. Lorcan chuckles at her as he lights the lantern by their bed. Casually, he picks up the long, wicked knife hidden behind the headboard before starting his scan of the room.

It’s his tradition after one of her nightmares to check their chambers; though she knows there are no Fae queens or ilken hiding in their wardrobe, the extra assurance makes her feel better. Maybe the routine is solely for Lorcan’s peace of mind, she thinks to herself, watching him slip silently into their bathing chamber, as if her Uncle might be haunting their bathtub. She knows it kills him not to be able to defend her from the nightmares; if he could, Lorcan would guard her mind just as he protects her body.

Maybe this is his way of making up for it.

Thankfully, Elide and Lorcan hadn’t chosen the ostentatious, sprawling chambers designated for the Lord and Lady of the castle. Though they had first belonged to her parents, they reminded her too much of their most recent inhabitant – her Uncle – to start her married life within them. Instead, Elide and Lorcan live in smaller, cozier rooms, containing only a bedroom, a bathing room, and an attached parlor.

She smiles at him as he emerges from the bathing chamber with his clothes in hand. Elide’s long since grown used to seeing Lorcan naked, but the sight still makes her blush. He notices the color spreading on her cheeks and laughs.

It’s become one of Elide’s favorite sounds: the rumble of his laughter, like thunder rolling across the plains of Perranth.

“Dirty girl,” he says chidingly, pulling on a loose pair of pants before approaching the bed, “Here.”

She gratefully accepts the shirt he offers her and is delighted to see it’s one of his own. Elide takes a deep breath as she slips it on, smelling the familiar mix of leather and amber. She isn’t sure if Lorcan fully understands how comforting it is to wear his shirts, but he always offers her one after a nightmare.

Elide is embarrassed by how routine this has become, by how regularly she wakes him only to sob onto his chest. If Lorcan minds being jolted awake in the middle of the night, he never shows it; deep down, she knows the only part of her nightmares that bothers him is the fact that he can’t stop them. But still.

He pulls her into his arms as he climbs back into bed, extinguishing the light with his thumb and forefinger. He runs his fingers through her hair, tucking her head beneath his chin, and she can tell he has something more to say. It’s almost as if she can hear the words building in his chest as she listens to his heartbeat.

“Never apologize to me, Elide,” he mutters after a moment, “I am here…I am here _for_ you and _because_ of you and I – I _love you_ , Elide. Whatever hurts you, hurts me.”

Elide nods, pressing a few kisses to his collarbone, but she hears the words he doesn’t say. _Whatever hurts you, hurts me. Whatever ends you, ends me_.

She tries to steady her breathing and heartbeat as much as she can; it’s impossible to trick Lorcan and his senses into thinking she’s asleep, but she can at least try to hide the thoughts racing through her mind.

_Selfish girl_ , she hears her uncle’s voice say.

_Wherever you go, I will follow_ , she hears Lorcan’s voice say.

Elide glances up at Lorcan’s face, the dim moonlight illuminating the sharp, beautiful angles and planes. She watches his blood pulse through the vein in his neck, barely able to breathe as she tries to imagine it going still.

_But it will go still one day_ , she thinks, _And when it does, it will be completely and wholly my fault._


	2. The Letter

“Fuck!”

Elide slams her book closed with a satisfying thud. Not quite angry enough to throw a centuries-old epic poem to the ground, she settles on sweeping it across her desk and out of sight. She sighs, rubbing her temples and screwing her eyes shut. Too many of her reading lessons end this way: a splitting headache and such strong frustration she hasn’t felt since traveling with Lorcan in that caravan.

“Fuck you,” she mutters, pointing to the leather-bound book now teetering precariously on the edge of her desk, “And fuck whoever the hell decided _epic poetry_ was a fitting way to tell stories.”

“Um…My Lady?”

The voice startles Elide so badly she almost upends her chair in her haste to stand. Self-consciously smoothing out the folds of her skirt, she turns to find a small boy huddled in her doorway, clutching a letter to his chest.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he squeaks, “But the courier said it was urgent – from the Queen herself, my Lady.”

“Oh, Aelin wrote!” Elide exclaims, more to herself than the boy, as she hurries across the room to take the letter from the messenger. She doesn’t remember his embarrassment or her rather… _unladylike_ …outburst until she glances at his wide eyes, the blush on his freckled cheeks. “I, um, apologize for what you heard before. I’m afraid learning to read might be the end of me.”

The boy perks up at that. He tugs at the hem of his shirt, obviously nervous. Elide flashes him the kindest smile she can muster; it’s all the encouragement he needs. “I’m learning to read, too,” he says quickly, “My brother said it was a waste of time, but I told him, _If my Lady can do it, so can I._ ”

“That’s very brave of you,” says Elide, leaning against her doorway. Grinning down at his little face, all of her earlier frustration is forgotten. Then, with a conspiratorial glance around, she adds in a stage whisper, “I think letters might be the most fearsome enemy I’ve ever faced – and I’ve faced some pretty terrible enemies.”

“Like the ilken, my Lady?” he prompts, beaming, “My brother told me you fought one all by yourself – _and won_!”

The boy adds the last two words in a dramatic whisper, as if he’s sharing some long-held secret, not telling her about her own life.

Elide laughs, opening her mouth to respond, but another voice answers for her. “She did. I saw it myself.”

Lorcan flashes her a quick, secret grin as he steps past the messenger boy into their chambers. She leans into his side as he bends down to kiss the top of her head, the movements practiced after a year of marriage. Elide has to bite back a laugh as the boy gapes at her husband, eyes wide and mouth open.

“I’ve met plenty of heroes and knights in my life, boy, but none as brave as your Lady,” Lorcan continues, voice low and gravelly, but Elide recognizes the humor hidden in his tone. She sees the rueful glint in his eyes as he glances at her, notices the slightest, teasing upturn of his lips. Elide feels a pang of fondness; she loves that she alone can recognize these secret signs in his face, his voice, his body. She loves that _she’s_ the one who can read him, see through him.

If the way he trembles in their doorway is any indication, it’s obvious that when the boy looks at Lorcan, he sees the dark, god-blessed warrior out of legends - not the gargantuan sweetheart that Elide sees.

“My Lord,” he stammers, bowing awkwardly, “I-I…I just came to deliver a l-l-letter, so I’ll be going now…My Lady, um, good luck with your…your lessons.”

“Thank you, dear,” she says, biting back a laugh as he nearly trips over himself in his hurry to get away from Lorcan, “Wait! I didn’t get your name! Oh, he is – he is _running_ , Lorcan. You really need to work on being more personable, you know. More people would like you if you were just a little… _cheerful_.”

“Oh, is that so?” he asks, raising a brow. Her stomach does a flip as he slowly closes the door behind him, pinning her down with his gaze.

“Yes,” she says. She tries, for a moment, to pretend to be unaffected by the way he stalks toward her, but she knows there’s no use. Lorcan can read her just as easily as she can read him. Besides, with those Fae senses, he knows the moment she feels anything _close_ to arousal – something she’s found out the hard way. “You just _glower_ , Lorcan. It’s off-putting.” 

“You find me… _off-putting_?” he says lowly.

“Well, I don’t,” she says, “But some of the servants have said –”

She had been keeping pace with him, taking one step backward for every step he took forward, but somewhere along the way she lost track of her place in the room.

Lorcan tends to have that effect on her.

She gasps in surprise when the backs of her legs collide with their bed, but Lorcan is there, taking her into his arms, before she can fall backwards onto the mattress.

“Well, my Lady,” he purrs, lowering his lips to brush against her ear, “I find I’m not very interested in making the servants like me.”

“Oh?” she says, swallowing hard as he kisses a slow path down her neck, along her throat. Oh Annieth, he makes it so damn impossible to retain any _semblance_ of composure.

“You see, there’s only one person in this world whose opinion matters to me,” he says, murmuring the words against her skin between slow, lazy kisses. Elide grips his arms, her eyes fluttering closed, as he focuses on a spot beneath her jaw he knows makes her weak in the knees.

“A-And who would that – that be?” she says, gasping when he gives her skin a playful nip, the sharp point of his canines brushing delightfully across the sensitive flesh.

“A woman who doesn’t mind my glowering,” he says, pulling away long enough to flash her a wicked grin at the blush on her cheeks, the glassiness in her eyes, the insistent tug of her hands on his arms – already asking for more. She knows he likes to see the effect he has on her. “A woman who makes sure to put me in my place.”

“She sounds amazing,” Elide breathes, leaning up on her tip toes to press her lips to Lorcan’s collarbone, working her way up to his throat.

“Oh, she is,” Lorcan growls, before grabbing her waist and hoisting her up to wrap her legs around his waist, “The most amazing woman I’ve ever met.”

Lorcan’s lips find Elide’s and suddenly everything is right in the world. She snakes her arms around his neck, sighing into his mouth at the familiarity of his body against hers. She melts against him as they kiss slowly, almost lazily. Gone is the urgency of the first few months of their marriage; then, Elide had felt like each of their kisses might have been their last, as if a rogue ilken might descend upon them and take Lorcan away forever.

But enough time has passed now to take their time, to savor each other.

Lorcan has certainly made it a point to savor her.

He still does, his tongue running along her bottom lip before pressing against hers. Elide moans quietly as his hands slide down her back to grip her ass. He groans, his fingers kneading into the soft flesh. 

“Lorcan,” she gasps. His hand run along the backs of her thighs now. She knows what comes next and has to summon every fiber of her self-control to say her next word: “Stop.”

He instantly raises his lips from hers, something so similar to a pout on his face it makes her laugh. “I’m sorry, but we – we have work to do,” she says, laughing again when he groans and buries his head in her shoulder.

“We _always_ have work to do,” he mutters, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to her shoulder. Even through the fabric of her dress, the touch threatens to ignite her skin.

“Lorcan, we fucked this morning. _And_ last night. _And_ yesterday afternoon. _And_ -”

“What can I say?” he mutters, flashing that wicked grin that makes her blood heat, “I just can’t keep my hands off you, Lady Lochan.”

“Missing one afternoon tumble won’t kill you,” she insists, giving his chest a playful slap.

“It might,” he mumbles, but he sets her down all the same. She grins at the disgruntled look on his face as he helps her fix her hair, readjust the collar of her dress.

“I think you’ll survive,” she says lightly, tapping him on the chest with Aelin’s letter, “Besides, I have some ideas on how to make it up to you tonight.”

She turns on her heels, walking back to their parlor and her desk, grinning at the speed with which he trails after her. The great Lorcan Salvaterre, following after her like an over-eager puppy. She sinks into her desk chair, her smile so wide it hurts.

“Where have you been, anyway?” she asks as Lorcan pulls up another chair beside hers.

“Meeting with the new Captain of the Guard,” he says

“And?” she prompts. Elide breaks the royal seal that marks the letter as Aelin’s and hands him the pages.

“He’s all right,” Lorcan says, distractedly, as his eyes scan over Aelin’s words, “Not as experienced as I’d like, but a fast learner. He agrees that the castle’s fortifications could be improved and even has a few ideas on how to do so. _And_ he knows how to keep his mouth shut. So, a vast improvement over the last one.”

It’s only been a year into Elide and Lorcan’s reign as Lady and Lord of Perranth, but they’ve already cycled through four Captains of the Guard. Elide leaves the matter up to Lorcan’s judgement, which might have been a mistake knowing his standards for her safety - and his intolerance for disrespect. He dismissed the last captain because of an off-hand remark he made, doubting that a woman as delicate as Elide could have actually fought in the war; the one before that made the mistake of raising his voice to her, making her flinch. Lorcan had personally kicked him out of the castle for that.

Sometimes Elide forgets just how taxing this life is for Lorcan. While Elide has her daily hours of meetings and subsequent paperwork, Lorcan manages most of the upkeep of the castle as well as rebuilding Perranth itself. Not to mention that, up until very recently, he had to be in attendance at every single one of her meetings, reading the documents to her in a low voice and shooting deathly glares at any of her advisors that dared raise even a brow at her illiteracy.

Though he never complains, Elide knows the tediousness of their new life must weigh on him just as much as it weighs on her.

And so Elide adds yet another weight to her guilt; by tying his life to hers, he’ll forfeit any chance at an interesting life. Forever.

“So,” she prompts, giving his arm a tug, “What did she say?”

Lorcan looks up from the letter, humor – and something else, something almost… _bright_ – glinting in his eyes. “Not so fast,” he says, grinning, “We have work to do.”

“ _Lorcan_!” she whines, making a grab for the sheath of parchment. Lorcan laughs, his long arms easily holding the papers out of reach.

“Doesn’t feel so good when the roles are reversed, huh?” he says, chuckling when she screws up her face in frustration, “Finish your chapter, _then_ I’ll read it.”

“You really are an ass, you know that?” she mumbles, slumping back into her chair.

Lorcan’s deep, resounding laugh breaks any resolve she had to stay angry. He pulls up a chair next to hers as she reaches for a book. “I was under the impression you were quite fond of my ass,” he says.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says airily, but she can’t fight the blush rising to her cheeks.

She _does_ love his ass.

Lorcan laughs again and the letter is all but forgotten as she revels in the sound; Elide barely feels her previous frustration as she works through a chapter in a Wendlyn history book. Lorcan watches over her shoulder, gently correcting her mistakes and helping her sound out words, running absent-minded fingers through her hair. 

“At the beg…begin…beginning of his…his _reign_ ,” she says, tracing along the page as she reads, “El-Elfric the Wise, the haa..haa… _hair_?”

“Heir,” corrects Lorcan, “The h is silent.”

“Why?” snaps Elide, “An h should be an _h_. All the time.”

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice lilting with amusement, “This may come as a surprise to you, but I didn’t write the alphabet.”

“You know, you were probably around when it was written, old man,” she says irritably, “You could have fixed it.”

“You’re right,” he says, leaning back in his chair and grinning at her, “I should have focused on hunting down scholars instead of fighting wars.”

“Exactly,” she mutters, bracing her head in her hands as she stares down at the page. In her frustration, the printed letters of the history book have begun to swim together into a swarm of little, black figures. Elide heaves a sigh and starts again, “Elfric the Wise, the _heir_ to the late king Al…Alred is known for his un…uncomprom…uncompromising will and per-per…persev…”

“Perseverance,” murmurs Lorcan, leaning forward to pry the book out of Elide’s hands. When she starts to protest, he clicks his tongue, closing the tome with a decisive snap. “You’ve almost read a whole chapter, Elide,” he says gently, “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“Lorcan, you spar and train for three hours every morning; I think I can handle reading a few pages,” she sighs, “Besides, you’re the one who told me to read a chapter; don’t tell me now that it’s _pushing too hard_.”

“It _is_ ,” he insists good-naturedly, “You’ve made remarkable progress, Elide; in just a few months you went from barely knowing your letters to reading out of _The History of the Royal Line of Wendlyn_. Even _I_ struggle with this shit and I lived through it.”

As he speaks, Lorcan leans forward in his chair and runs his hands along Elide’s shoulders, rubbing away the tension. She is surprised he even noticed; Elide herself had barely begun to register the ache in her muscles.

“I’m the _Lady_ of Perranth,” she says, sighing halfway through her sentence as he presses the heels of his hand into a particularly tight knot, “It’s shameful that I can’t read.”

“Nothing about you is shameful,” he mutters forcefully, his black eyes warm as he looks at her. “Besides, Elfric was a mean, old drunk. He’s not worth the headache.”

“You knew him?” asks Elide.

“Not really,” he says, leaning backward as she shifts in her chair to face him. “I only met him towards the end of his reign, when he’d become a bitter, worn-out drunkard. I was visiting for the Yulemas feast, and he ranted and raved for most of the night about enemies and traitors, then fell asleep at the high table until his advisors carried him to bed. I’m willing to bet they left _that_ out of _The Royal Line of Wendlyn_.”

“Shame,” she says, grinning at him, “That’d make a far more interesting story.”

“Just wait until you get to the section about his daughter,” he says, taking her hand and tracing patterns over her palm, “Queen Orena.”

“Did you meet her, too?” she asks.

“Yes, several times,” he says, “She was called the Peacock of Wendlyn.”

“For her beauty?”

“Her vanity.”

“Same difference.”

“Is that jealousy I hear in your voice?” Lorcan asks with a smirk.

“If you knew I’d rubbed elbows with a man renowned for his beauty, wouldn’t you be jealous?”

“Well, I’ve trusted you to resist Fenrys’ charms this far,” he murmurs, raising her hand to his mouth to leave a soft kiss on her palm.

“Did you resist _her_ charms?” she says, clinging to her righteousness, even as his lips work their ungodly magic on her skin, “Or am I about to read about one of my husband’s trysts in my history book?”

“So possessive, Lady Lochan,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to the veins in her wrist, “ _Yes,_ I resisted her. Easily.”

“What a convenient answer.”

“She didn’t sway me,” he says. In one smooth motion, he scoops her out of her chair and into his lap. She laughs, surprised, and wraps her arms around his neck. “There have been _very_ few women in my life who truly swayed me. Almost as if I was waiting for someone.”

“So romantic, Lord Lochan,” she laughs into his hair, biting back a sigh as his lips press against her neck, “You expect me to believe you fell into my bed as a blushing virgin?”

“I think you know _very_ well just how experienced I am,” he hums against her skin, smiling when her breath hitches, “But I never truly wanted anyone before you, not really. I _wanted_ sex – not the women who gave it to me.”

“Lorcan!” she laughs, giving his shoulder a playful slap, “So rude!”

His grin widens before he gives her neck a nip, kissing away the hurt before she has time to gasp.

“You were the first person I’ve ever… _ever_ wanted,” he says, raising his face from her neck to meet her eyes.

She’s heard this before, in different words at various points throughout the last year, but it still pierces her heart. “Oh, Lorcan,” she sighs, pressing her lips to his, trying to show him through the kiss just how much _she_ wants _him_. His grip tightens, shifting her by the waist until she fully straddles him.

“I take it you don’t want to read your letter?” he murmurs against her lips, breaking their kiss to grin at her.

“Oh, you complete, utter –”

“Call me an ass again and I’ll make you read some more of that epic poetry,” he says.

Elide smiles despite herself, giving his shoulder a half-hearted shove, and wonders – not for the first time – just how many people have seen him like this: not searching for enemies or threats but smiling and laughing, completely at ease.

“Are you gonna read it to me or not?” she says, running a hand through his hair. His eyelids flutter and she laughs; Elide knows she has him in the palm of her hand.

“You are going to be the death of me,” he mutters, but there’s no malice to his words, no matter how true they might be.

Grinning broadly, Elide shifts in his lap until her back is against his chest. He pulls the letter out of a pocket in his doublet and unfolds it, holding it so Elide can see it, too. She recognizes Aelin’s looping scrawl, too messy – or maybe too dignified – for Elide’s novice eyes to read. 

Lorcan runs a finger along the parchment as he reads, careful to go slowly enough that Elide can try to piece together which scribble corresponds to the words he says.

_My dearest, sweetest, most precious, Elide,_

“This sounds like a love letter,” grumbles Lorcan, finger hovering over his wife’s name.

“If I was going to leave you for a woman, it would be Manon, not Aelin,” Elide says, laughing at the way Lorcan stiffens behind her. And under her. “Keep going.”

_I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. This Queen business isn’t as easy as Dorian’s mother made it out to be. I was under the impression I would be able to sit in parlors all day, surrounded by adoring citizens, being fed grapes, and receiving massages from beautiful men. Well, I guess I’ve used up all my good luck winning a war; now I actually have to do work. _

_I was delighted to see your signature in your last message – your handwriting is becoming lovelier with each letter! I wonder who you’re learning from. Surely that brute can’t have taught you such lovely penmanship._

“She _does_ know we’re married, doesn’t she?”

“She was the officiant,” Elide chuckles, “I’d say she remembers.”

_I hope your cold has improved. If it gets any worse, don’t hesitate to write to Yrene. Rowan had a nasty bout of food poisoning a few weeks ago (it was terrible, Elide; I’ve never seen someone shit that much) and Yrene wrote us a recipe for a remedy that worked in hours. Just don’t tell anyone about poor Rowan’s affliction – he’s quite shy about it._

“Oh, I can _not_ wait to see Whitethorn again,” crows Lorcan happily.

“She just told us not to tell anyone!”

“You think that loudmouth Aelin hasn’t told all of Orynth herself?”

_You and your beast must come to Orynth soon. Being so grand and important actually leaves me without much company; I’m sure your adoring citizens can stand your absence for a month or six for the sake of their Queen. And if it’s your advisors you’re worried about, a request from their sovereign should be a good enough reason for them. And, if it’s not, tell them I’ll_ _just come visit them and see what they say (or, Lorcan – I know you’re reading this – just go glare at them and they’ll change their minds). _

_Speaking of the glowering sweetheart, I have good news (though I suppose it’s only good news if you haven’t changed your mind, Elide, and decided you’d rather spend the rest of your days with someone who actually knows how to smile)._

“This joke is wearing thin,” Lorcan growls.

“She’s _kidding_ ,” Elide says, giving his jaw a quick kiss, “You know how she likes to tease. Go on, now, this is getting good.”

_I’ve been corresponding with Yrene. She’s been researching in the Torre Cesme while I’ve been poring over every spell book in Orynth I can find – and we think we might have found a solution for your little immortal/mortal romance._

Elide’s stomach drops just as excitement floods Lorcan’s tone.

_There’s a relatively simple spell that binds one life force to another – basically creating the bond Yrene and Chaol have, though in a much less dramatic manner. However, from everything I’ve read, it’s unclear whether it would tie Elide to Lorcan or Lorcan to Elide. Either way, it presents problems. For whatever reason, I know you’re fond of your mortality, Elide, so bonding yourself to Lorcan wouldn’t be ideal. If Lorcan bound himself to you, it would give you both the exact same mortal lifespan – but Lorcan wouldn’t age. And you would. Though I’m not one to delve into anyone’s sexual proclivities, I don’t know how either of you would feel about a young, strapping Lorcan bedding an eighty-year-old Elide. Though, to each their own, I suppose._

Elide shifts in his lap, trying to imagine the scenario Aelin described.

Barely a few months past twenty, Elide has already spotted a gray hair or two in her roots. The skin by her eyes crinkles when she smiles and her handmaiden has started putting lotion on her neck every night. “To prevent wrinkling, ma’am,” she had said when Elide questioned the new step in her routine.

She imagines Lorcan as she knows him – muscled and beautiful and so _alive_ – next to the decrepit old lady she’s rapidly becoming. She can’t picture it.

“I will love you, always,” he murmurs into her hair, as if he can read her thoughts, “ _No matter what_. You know that.”

“Keep reading,” she says, her voice tighter than before.

_Rowan remembers some ritual from Wendlyn – you might know it, too, Lorcan – wherein a Fae can renounce his lineage and make himself mortal. It’s quite complicated, but I think if we all put our heads together we could pull it off. The only drawback is that Lorcan would lose all of the attributes of his Fae lineage. Not just long life, but powers, strength, and senses, too. _

Elide struggles to keep her breathing steady even as her uncle’s voice chants in her ear: _Selfish girl, selfish girl, selfish girl._

Who is Lorcan without his power? Without his strength? It’s been a part of him for so, so long – _five hundred years_. Longer than Elide’s mortal mind can even fathom. How can she ask him to sacrifice that? It would be like someone asking to take her sight or her hearing.

Lorcan snakes an arm around her waist, fanning his fingers out over her side and pulling her closer.

_Thankfully, we have Yrene._

_She thinks a combination of rituals and spells would do the trick. According to our research, there might be a way to bind his life to yours and initiate aging – all without taking away his Fae heritage. It would be complicated as all hell – a combination of Fae magic and human medicine and spells and blood charms and possibly even witch magic (so you might want to try getting in touch with Manon). Most likely, it will take a few years to figure out and Rowan doubts it’s ever been done before – but I think we can do it. We’ve overcome worse odds, haven’t we? _

_I’ve enclosed some copies of the more important pages of our research, but you’ll have to come to Orynth and visit me to see the rest._

“I suppose making her Queen didn’t take away her appetite for blackmail,” says Lorcan, before continuing.

_Please write back as soon as you can. Depending on your answer, I’ll start some more in-depth research. Besides, I want to hear all about Perranth and your reading lessons and if Lorcan’s as generous a lover as his pal Whitethorn (another reason you need to learn to write, Elide; I want to trade stories without your little beastie looking through the keyhole)._

“She is wholly inappropriate,” mutters Lorcan, who Elide had quickly learned fiercely refuses to discuss their sex life. Which means, of course, that Aelin never misses an opportunity to pry.

_I love you and miss you and hope you’re as happy as a person can be – you deserve it._

_Lorcan, treat her well or I will strangle you, skin you, and dance on your grave._

_(Also, thank you for teaching her to read.)_

_All my boundless love,_

_A.A.W.G_

They sit in silence for a beat, Elide’s heart racing within her chest. She tries to slow it, to control her breathing, well aware that Lorcan can feel every change in her body, scent every shift in her emotions – but she can’t.

_Selfish, selfish girl_.

“Do you realize what this means?” Lorcan says, his voice raw and low in her ear. A bolt of panic shoots through her when she sees the letter trembling – trembling because _Lorcan_ is trembling.

Elide has never known Lorcan to _tremble_.

_Oh no,_ she thinks _, He doesn’t want to die. He’s come to his senses. He’s going to back out. He’s going to be angry I even asked. He’s –_

“They’ve found it, Elide,” Lorcan whispers, shifting her in his lap so she faces him head-on. His huge, calloused hands cup her face so gently it could make her cry. “They’ve – they’ve found a way. We can be together. _Really_ together. Like we were meant to be.”

Elide gasps when his bottom lip twitches, his eyes gleaming. She’s only ever seen Lorcan like this on their wedding day – no one dares bring it up, but he cried through the majority of the ceremony – but even then the eyes of their gathered friends kept him restrained.

There is nothing restrained about the way he kisses her now. He sweeps her into his arms, almost crushing her in his grasp. His lips are hot against hers, his tongue insistent when she opens for him. He readjusts his hold on her waist to pull her closer, closer, closer. As if she might slip away if he lets go.

She returns the embrace, clutching at his broad back like she’s drowning and he’s a piece of driftwood. If he scents the tears in her eyes or feels the hitch in her breath, he doesn’t acknowledge it. _He must think I’m overjoyed_ , she thinks, suddenly bitter, suddenly panicked, _He must think I’m_ excited _to watch him die._

He pulls back to look at her, his dark eyes bright as they rove over her face, an easy, wide smile on his lips. She does her best to mirror the joy on his face. Lorcan kisses her deeply, desperately. So lovingly, so softly it breaks a sob from her chest.

“Shhh,” he soothes, running a hand through her hair, “I know. I know.”

Elide leans her forehead on his shoulder, letting him hold her, letting him whisper happy promises in her ear as if she isn’t his executioner. As if they aren’t discussing his death with smiles on their faces.

She is grateful when another knock sounds at the door and her handmaiden breezes into the room. She stops dead in her tracks, eyes wide and guilty at finding her Lady straddling her Lord, sobbing into his shoulder.

“My Lady –”

“Get out,” growls Lorcan, moving Elide’s head to his other shoulder so the servant can’t see her tears. The small, thoughtful movement brings a fresh wave of tears to her eyes; she has to bite her tongue to keep her sobs quiet.

Gods, she loves him so much.

How can she let him go? How can she let him die?

“It’s only – I came to get her ready for dinner –”

“I believe she can do that herself,” Lorcan snaps. Elide squeezes his shoulder in a silent request, and he softens his tone for her sake as he continues. “Thank you, though. Please leave us.”

The servant nods her head, flashes them one last concerned look, and hurries out of the room. Lorcan presses a lingering kiss on the top of her head, his hand shaking as he grasps her waist.

“All right,” he murmurs eventually, his breath warm against her scalp, “Let’s get dressed.”

Elide nods, avoiding his eyes as she stands.

“Are you all right?” he asks, pressing a finger under his chin and gently making her meet his gaze.

“Just…tired,” she says with a half-hearted chuckle and shrug, “And emotional.”

“We don’t have to go, you know. We could have the food brought here. Say one of us is ill,” he says, looping an arm around her waist.

“We’re expected, Lorcan.”

“If anyone has any problems with our absence, they’re free to bring their complaints to me,” he says, a fierce, violent gleam in his eyes.

She manages to laugh, despite the heaviness in her chest. “No, no, we should go,” she says, telling herself as much as him, “Thank you, though, love.”

“All right,” he says, pressing a final kiss to her hair, “We can talk about it later tonight, hm? After dinner? You’ll feel better after you eat.”

She nods, watching him stride towards her vanity. He picks through her drawers and boxes with practiced ease, choosing the jewelry, brushes, perfume she likes best.

Elide has to look away. This warrior – _her_ warrior – knows that she prefers the hairbrush encrusted in mother of pearl because the whale-bone comb hurts her scalp; he knows she prefers the lily-of-the-valley perfume because it smells like her mother and that she only wears the myrrh that Aelin got her for special occasions.

He laid down his swords for a wedding ring. He traded bloodshed for domesticity. And yet he still wants to sacrifice more. He wants to turn his back on immortality for…for what? _Her_?

No, she decides, watching his face – more familiar than her own – in the mirror of her vanity. She won’t let him damn himself to waste away for her, won’t let him throw away his life for a meaningless, mortal existence. Even if it might kill her to lose him.

He glances at her through the mirror and she flashes the brightest, most genuine smile she can muster.

He sees right through her. Just like always.

The look he gives her – full of sympathy and worry and love – makes her heart hurt.

“I love you,” he says over his shoulder. It’s a reminder, a promise, an unasked question.

“I love you, too,” she says, blinking away the tears burning her eyes. Trying to be half as strong as Aelin, as Manon, as any of the warriors who won their war; she’ll need all of their will to do what she has to do next: let him go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a sucker for married Elorcan, so I apologize if I was self-indulgent with the domestic fluff. This is also my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic, so I appreciate any criticisms, reviews, or suggestions (as always)! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!!


	3. The Vow

“You’ve packed all the gowns you’ll need? Jewelry? Shoes?”

Elide nods from her seat on their parlor sofa. She keeps her eyes trained on the fire in front of her and not the husband behind her, whose hands rest on her shoulders. She feels the unspoken concern through the touch, and for a moment she wonders if he’ll finally ask the question that’s been hovering between them for a month.

But after a moment of strained silence, he lifts his hands; the sudden absence of his touch is enough to make her shiver. His footsteps are muted by the rug as he crosses the room, back into their bedchamber. Making last minute preparations for their journey tomorrow.

Their journey to Orynth. To see Aelin. To learn how to tie their lives together.

To learn how to kill Lorcan.

Elide screws her eyes shut, forcing away the overwhelming guilt that arrived with Aelin’s letter and has been growing for the past month. It sits on her chest like a physical presence, pressing harder every time he looks at her, smiles at her, touches her. Festering like the worst, most virile infection, pulsing beneath her skin like a fever.

She feels that now-familiar burn of guilt as she listens to him pace the chamber behind her. He picks up trinkets and puts them down again as if he’s unsure what to do with himself.

Usually, on a night like this, he would be sprawled on the couch beside her with his head in her lap, or maybe he’d drag her out for a walk in the gardens. Teasing her. Laughing with her. _Being_ with her.

She risks a glance over her shoulder, foregoing the pretense of trying to read the book on her lap. Through the open door, she can see his shadow on the floor of the bedroom. Pacing back and forth like a caged animal, the tension rolling off him as surely as though it were his magic. But where his powers are dark and malevolent this is…unsure. Hesitating.

Elide has felt this tension these past few weeks, growing and growing and growing. Like a wave waiting to crest. Pressure waiting to burst.

An argument waiting to happen.

Elide sighs, fingers curling over the leather covers of the novel in her hands.

She and Lorcan don’t argue. In their year of living together, they’ve had a few heated discussions, but never a true, angry argument. Never since that day in Anielle, when they’d spoken so cruelly to each other, have they had anything _close_ to an argument.

Until now.

Elide opens her mouth, trying to find the right words to say. The right way to start this…this… _undoing_ , but she can’t find it.

Never before have words, her only weapon for so long, failed her so completely.

She has always been able to use Annieth’s gift of cunning to manipulate a situation to her liking, to eke out people’s secrets in their bodies and voices, to turn a conversation into an interrogation without blinking an eye.

But not with Lorcan. Not now. Not ever.

She never wields that weapon, that gift, against him.

At the beginning of their relationship, during those first few weeks of peace, he’d quietly – almost shyly – told her that navigating emotions was as foreign to him as reading was to her. She’d heard the unspoken worry behind his words: that a warrior honed on a battlefield could never compete with a woman so well-versed in subtlety and manipulation.

She swore then and there that she would never hide from him, never lie or twist the truth the way she does to others.

That with him, she would always be _Elide_ – nothing more and nothing less.

“Perfect,” he’d whispered, kissing her with a tentativeness he’s long since lost.

She knows she’s using his hesitancy with emotions against him.

She knows it’s wrong and cruel and so fucking selfish it makes her chest hurt.

But she just…can’t find the words.

His footsteps sound again, bringing him closer and closer until they pause by the door. 

“Finally done packing?” she says over her shoulder, pasting on the brightest grin she can muster.

He doesn’t smile back at her.

Arms crossed over his chest, dark hair loose about his shoulders, a shadow of a scowl on his face, he looks so much like the warrior who found her in Oakwald that it makes her lose her breath. So different from the smiling, laughing Lorcan she knows now.

“What is it?” she asks, her grin faltering.

But as ignorant as he might claim to be about emotions and people, he _knows_ her.

Understands her in a way no one else has ever been able to. Sees beneath the veneer of cheerful, delicate Lady to the thoughtful, cruel, hurt woman beneath.

And still loves her despite it.

All these weeks, he's known something is amiss. She knows that he can feel the guilt and anger and fear roiling within her, but that he would trust her to tell him when she was ready. To come to him with her problems, just as she has since Anielle.

“Elide.”

His voice is a tether to reality, to her life. It’s the voice that reels her back from her nightmares.

Salvation, that voice.

She turns her face back to the fire before he can see it crumple. 

“Are you going to tell me?” he asks from the doorway, that blessed voice tight and tense.

“Tell you what?” she asks through a suddenly thick throat.

“Don’t do that, Elide. Not to me.”

She bows her head, looking with unseeing eyes at the words printed on the pages in her lap.

“You swore you wouldn’t.”

The hurt in his voice, plaintive and earnest, threatens to undo her completely.

“You swore, Elide, to give me that respect. I’m your husband, not someone you can manipulate and twist and lie to.”

“Lorcan! I haven’t lied to you!” she says, twisting in her seat to gape at him, just in time to see relief cross his face. Somehow, that hurts worse – the idea that he might have spent the past month thinking she was lying to his face, hiding something worse than the guilt festering in her heart.

“But something’s happening,” he says, voice low and insistent. “Something is happening with you – _to you,_ I don’t know – and you haven’t told me. _Won’t_ tell me.”

She purses her lips and turns back to the fire.

“Why?” he growls, his voice like gravel.

She scrambles for the words, but Lorcan speaks first.

“Do not hide from me, Elide. Please.” She hears him swallow, before taking a few steps toward her and stopping again. “I can’t bear it any longer.”

“I’m not hiding, Lorcan,” she says to the fire, her fingers clutching her book so tightly her knuckles turn white.

“Don’t lie.”

No one else would hear it – the strain of pleading in his voice, the desperation, the begging. But she does.

She has only ever heard him plead like this on the battlefield.

A wave of memories bombard her: a forearm braced around her stomach, words whispered in her ear, the stench of Valg blood, the creaking of a breaking dam behind her.

A pang of remorse goes through her like some dark magic.

He heaves a deep sigh, taking a few more steps toward her. She sits up straighter, bracing for his hands on her shoulders, his lips on her neck, but no touch comes. Elide fights the urge to twist in her seat and look at him, but she knows if she does all of her self-control will crumble. She has to stay strong. She can’t run into his arms – no matter how much she wants to.

Not this time.

Not with his life on the line.

“I…I know what this is about, Elide.”

She whips her head around, surprise outweighing her resolve. But Lorcan, for once, isn’t looking at her. His eyes are trained on the fire, as if he, too, can’t stand to meet her eyes.

Gods, this tension rubs at her like sandpaper.

Worse, like manacles. Like captivity. 

“What?” she whispers, her stomach dropping.

He swallows. Once. Twice.

“I know…I know I’m not good at this. I know the servants don’t like me. I know the people fear me. I don’t blame them…I understand why. And you have every right to be…to be…” He trails off, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. “But I am _trying_ , Elide. Trying to be better, trying to be worthy of this land, of your people. Of _you_.”

Elide gapes at him, opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water.

“What…what the hell are you talking about, Lorcan?” she says.

His gaze snaps up from the fire to meet hers, his thick, dark brows knitting together.

“I know I’m not the best…the best at this domestic life. I know I’m not the best husband, Elide, but –”

“No, Lorcan!” Elide jumps to her feet, the words flying from her mouth before she has a chance to consider them. “I…I…you’re the best husband I could have ever, ever hoped for. Whatever made you think that?”

Lorcan watches her splutter with incredulity on his face, his confusion growing with every word.

“Well… _you_ ,” he says. “You’ve been distant these past few weeks, Elide. Like you had something you wanted to tell me but weren’t sure how…”

He trails off, shaking his head as though he were mistaken.

But he’s completely correct.

“I do, actually, but it’s not…it’s not that you’re a bad husband. Good _gods_ , Lorcan, you’re an amazing husband. You’re thoughtful and kind and protective and _beautiful_. And the people will come to love you in time. Just as I did.”

The corner of his lips twitches upward. Relief softens his features for just a moment before it’s quickly replaced by confusion. This time, at least, laced with sympathy.

“Are you sure?” he asks haltingly. 

This vulnerability - something she knows he would only show to her - makes her take a step toward him, reaching instinctively to touch his face, to comfort him. But she stops herself. Steels herself.

“I’m more than sure,” she says. “You are…perfect. That’s why…that’s why…”

“Why _what_ , Elide?” he pushes, taking a few steps forward, but still not reaching for her. “Let me help you. Let me in. This…this…this distance is killing me. It’s _killing_ me.”

“I know. I know. It’s hurting me, too,” she says. At the break in her voice, he takes a large step toward her, closing the distance between them.

A shudder runs through her as his hands grip her shoulders. She grabs onto his wrists before she can stop herself, pressing a kiss to one of them. She’ll need this comfort – this comfort she can only find in his skin – if she’s going to get through this.

“Then let me help you,” he whispers, his dark eyes wide with concern. “It’s all I’m good for, anyway.”

She manages to laugh at that, earning her a half-hearted grin from Lorcan.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss her forehead. She bites back a sob as his lips touch her skin.

So heartachingly gentle, this man. This warrior. And only for her.

For her, he called Maeve. For her, he betrayed Aelin and her own trust. For her, he swore the blood oath to a woman he did not like and barely respected. For her, as he’s often told her, he would do anything.

Anything, including _dying_.

But Elide did not ride across the plain at Anielle just for him to walk willingly to his death a year later. She will not allow it.

She looks up at his eyes, so dark at first look, but really a kaleidoscope of caramel and gold and ochre. She fought to keep those eyes alight, alive. She will not let them close. Not if she can help it.

“We can’t go tomorrow.”

He raises his brows.

“We can’t go to Orynth,” she continues. “We can’t go see Aelin.”

“Any particular reason, or have you finally realized she’s a hellish pain in my ass?” he chuckles, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear.

She tries and fails to smile at the joke.

“We can’t…Lorcan, we can’t do the ritual.”

His hand falls still in her hair.

“Or the spell or the rite or the secret handshake or whatever Aelin and Yrene have found,” she rambles, nervous under the intensity of his gaze.

“What?” he whispers, shaking his head slightly as if he didn’t hear her right.

“I won’t sit by and let you sign away your life for something as inconsequential as…as…” She trails off, unsure how to finish. “I just can’t let you do it.”

She throws her arms up as she speaks, accidentally knocking his hands from her shoulders. She starts to pace, anything to distract herself from the invitation of his body. How tempting it is to throw herself in his arms, curl up with him on this very couch, and pretend that the heart within his chest that she loves so well will never stop beating.

“ _That’s_ what this is about?” he asks, sounding half-exasperated and half-relieved. “My _life_?”

“Yes,” she says in a strained whisper. Running a shaking hand through her hair, she risks a glance at him, expecting to find anger or disappointment – not the wide smile on his lips. It’s enough to stop her dead in her tracks.

“Elide, I thought this was something serious!” he says, before throwing his head back and laughing.

_Laughing_.

Surprise roots Elide to the spot, watching her husband laugh as though she’d just told some uproariously funny joke. As though they weren’t discussing his mortality – or lack thereof.

“It _is_ serious,” she says, her voice low and steady. “We’re talking about your life, Lorcan. Your _life_ –”

“What of it?” he says, the last traces of his laughter still fading from his voice.

“What of it?” she repeats. “ _What of it?_ It’s your life! Your life that you’d be giving up if you bound yours to mine. And not just that – your health! Joints that don’t ache, hair that doesn’t gray, skin that never wrinkles!”

“A perk of immortality, sure,” he says with an easy shrug. “Not something I can’t live without.”

“If you go through with this, you won’t be _living_ with anything.”

“Now, I know Aelin hates me, but I don’t think she’d design this ritual to kill me instantly. I _am_ supposed to have a few decades at least, aren’t I?”

“This is no joke, Lorcan.” Her voice trembles with rage – a rage she hasn’t felt since the war.

He scoffs at her tone, as if expecting her to join in his teasing. A moment passes, and he seems to realize she’s not joking; his faces falls, exasperation and concern filling his eyes.

“You’re serious about this? You truly don’t want me to complete the binding?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“And you’re telling me this now? After a year together? Planning our lives? Discussing our future? You decided to wait until now to tell me you didn’t actually want to spend your life with me?”

“Lorcan, that’s not what I’m saying –”

“It might have been helpful to mention this _before_ the wedding, Elide.”

“Of course I want to spend my life with you! You know that.” He opens his mouth to speak again, but she cuts him off. “You don’t get to twist things, either.”

He holds her gaze for a long moment before nodding once.

They don’t have much experience arguing, but Elide isn’t going to let lack of practice hold them back. She is not Aelin and Lorcan is not Rowan; they will not argue with the abandon of their Queen and King. They will have rules. Reminders that they are still Elide and Lorcan – together, no matter what. Together, against everything.

He narrows his eyes, assessing her with a warrior’s analysis.

“You’re truly upset about this.”

She nods, 

“Why?” he asks. “I thought this is what we wanted. You agreed, that day in Orynth. When I offered, you agreed.”

“I know I did.”

“And all the times after, every time we spoke of it, you never objected. In every letter we wrote to Aelin and Yrene, you always asked about their research. You never told them to stop. You seemed…excited.”

His tone isn’t accusatory, just questioning. Curious. A battlefield commander looking to get to the bottom of a problem.

A husband, searching for ways to help.

“No, I know. I _was_ excited. I thought that’s what I wanted, but now…”

“Now, what? Have I done something to make you reconsider?” he teases, though his smile is wan, his tone half-hearted. 

“Yes, it’s your snoring, Lorcan,” she says, with a weak attempt at a grin.

He attempts a smile, too. For her sake.

“What changed?” he asks.

She crosses the small distance between them to take his hands into hers. “Lorcan, you have been alive for five hundred years – _five hundred years!_ You’ve been everywhere, done everything. You were friends with people in my _history book_ for Annieth’s sake!”

“And?” he says, shrugging with all the nonchalance of a man discussing the weather, not his immortal life.

“ _And_ you can’t give all that up for – for – for…”

“For you?” he offers, running a thumb down the back of her hand. “Elide, I would give up anything for you. You know that.”

“Yes, I do, and _that’s_ why you can’t do it! Because…because you lose all common sense when it comes to me.”

“Oh, do I?”

“Yes. And I’m not bringing up ancient history, but you’ve been known to show… _recklessness_ …where I’m concerned.”

“And racing across a battlefield to certain death isn’t _reckless_? Let me remind you, I’m not the only one in love.”

“No, you most certainly are not. Which is why I can’t let you die. Not for me. I will not have that on my shoulders.”

Lorcan’s hands go still in hers, something darkening in his eyes, as if he just now realized how serious she is.

“So, what’s your plan?”

“What?”

“Tell me what happens next.”

She shakes her head, confused. He squeezes her hands, sensing that she’s about to pull away.

“Tomorrow, we don’t go to Orynth. We write Aelin, tell her we’re done with research. The next ten years go by. Hopefully we have children. They’re a peaceful ten years. Twenty years. Thirty. The children grow. They age. You do, too. But I don’t. What then? What then, when my body is young and yours isn’t and you deny me a place in our bed?”

“Lorcan, I wouldn’t –”

“What about when our children look older than me? When _their_ children look older than me? When our souls are the same age, but our bodies differ so vastly? What happens to Perranth when their Lady dies and they are left with an evergreen Lord who no one particularly likes and everyone fears and who will _never_ die?”

“Lorcan,” she says, blinking away the tears in her eyes. He continues, his tone low and harsh, so different from the gentle reverence with which he brushes the tears off her cheeks.

“What am I meant to do when our children die? When our grandchildren die? When _their_ children die, and I still remain?” He lowers his voice to a whisper as he says, “What am I meant to do, Elide, when _you_ die?”

“Lorcan,” she says in a trembling whisper. He runs a thumb over her cheek, through the tear tracks. “That isn’t what I want. You know that.”

“What _do_ you want, then?” he asks gently. She struggles for words, gaping up at him. There’s nothing but understanding – or, at least, an attempt at understanding – in his dark, depthless eyes.

“I meant what I told you in Orynth, after the battle,” he continues, when she doesn’t answer. “You will never be alone. _We_ will never be alone. I will tie my life to yours; your death will be my death. You will never have to live a day without me.”

He smiles down at her, as if this solved anything.

“That’s not the point,” she says, reaching up to take his hands, clutching them in hers. “It’s not about… about needing to be with you.” At the raise of his eyebrows, she hurries to say, “I _do_ need to be with you, but that’s not what this is about.”

“What _is_ the point, then?”

“It’s about…” She takes a deep breath, letting his touch steady her. “Lorcan, the reason I came for you in Anielle wasn’t just because of the promise I made. It was just… _right_. When I stood on that balcony, looking out at the battlefield, and realized you were still out there, it felt like the world was crashing down around me. It felt like the world would end if you died. Like there would be no world left without you in it. It would be a crime, a sin to let you leave this life.”

He flashes her a sad, crooked grin. “I do believe the majority of the world would think my death to be a blessing.”

“The majority of the world can go fuck itself.”

He huffs out a laugh, looking at her in that way of his that makes her feel like a rarity, like he’s never seen her before.

“A world without me would be a crime? A sin?” he repeats doubtfully.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “A world without you would be no world at all.”

He smiles again. A sad, wistful smile. “That’s the world you would condemn me to, then? A world without _you_.”

She sighs, gazing up at him through the blur of her tears. He presses a gentle touch to her chin, keeping her from dipping her head.

“Elide, I walked this earth for _five hundred years_ before I met you. I have seen all there is to see, done all there is to do. I have seen the world in war and in peace, under kings and queens and in chaos. I used to think I could survive anything. But Elide, I cannot – will not – survive a world without you in it. I can’t bear thinking about it. There would be nothing left for me – no life, no world, _nothing_. The day you die is the day I die, whether or not I’m mortal.”

“Oh, _Lorcan,_ ” she starts, though she has no idea what she could say to counter this. He swipes a thumb over her chin as he speaks, bittersweet love shining in his eyes.

“You are the only – the _only_ – good thing I’ve ever had. Before you, I was hollow. Empty. I thought life was meant to be heavy and terrible and lonely – and then I found you. And everything changed. It’s as if I lived my whole life in the shade and then you came and chased the clouds away and now I can’t – I _can’t_ live without the sun. I can’t go back to that life before you. I _can’t_ , Elide.

“If you love me, don’t make me go back to that life. Don’t make me be alone again. I can’t bear it. Not after this. Not after you.”

Elide bites her lip, looking at the desperation in her husband’s eyes, hearing the strain in his voice. She’s never seen him like this, not since the war. Even then, her mind was so clouded by panic and adrenaline she barely registered when he showed this emotion.

But now, in the quiet of their chambers, the need in his voice sets her very bones on edge. It feels so wrong to hear him upset, worried, _scared_. All she wants to do is protect him, ease his wound, comfort him.

But she can’t. Not now. Not when she’s so sure this is what’s best…isn’t she?

“Lorcan,” she says, her voice beginning to shake. His jaw tightens and his hand twitches at her side. She knows he feels the same instinctive tug to take care of her that she does. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t do everything you could to prevent my death if the roles were reversed.”

“The roles _could_ be reversed, Elide. You could bind your life to mine. We could spend centuries together. But I know that’s not what you want, so I accepted it. I am _happy_ to live a mortal life – as long as it’s with you. You’re not taking anything from me, Elide; this is what I want.”

“Yes, I am! I’m taking away a life full of – full of _adventure_ and travel and making fucking history! Who am I to ask you to give that up? To sacrifice centuries’ worth of more adventures? I can’t steal your life from you, Lorcan!”

He sighs heavily, running another hand through his long hair. Elide resists the urge to rush to him, to stand on her tiptoes and brush back every stray strand.

“Elide, yes, I’ve had _adventures_ , as you call them. Yes, I’ve made history – I’ve started and finished wars, I’ve killed and killed and _killed_. Yes, I’ve traveled – but I traveled alone. I’ve seen every city, every nation, every beautiful sight there is to see – but I saw them alone. With blood on my hands. And I have had my fill of those types of _adventures_.

“I have lived _five hundred years_ and I am _tired_. The only other adventure I want is _you_ – the life we’ll have. The children we’ll have. That’s the one _adventure_ I never…that I never let myself consider. I want to take you to every place I’ve ever been; I want to show you everything I’ve ever seen. I want to learn what it is to age, to grow old. I want to see you pregnant, to hold a baby that has your eyes, to raise children that call you mother and call me father. I want to know what it is to – to _create_ something instead of destroy it.

“And then I want to die, Elide. With you. With my wife. Because you are all that I am. After you, there is…there is…there is no “after you” for me. There is only you.”

Elide stares at him for a long moment, trying to stem the flow of tears threatening to spill out onto her cheeks. She takes half a step back when he reaches for her; if she lets him touch her now, after those words, she knows she’ll succumb to his argument.

But, part of her argues, would it really be so bad to succumb? To let him make his choice? To give them both the life they so desperately want?

“You know, if you were half this sweet in front of Aelin she’d like you a hell of a lot more,” she manages to choke out, wiping at her eyes.

Lorcan scoffs. “This is for you and only you.”

She laughs despite herself. This time, when he takes a step toward her, she doesn’t back away.

“Elide,” he say quietly, his voice so raw and soft he sounds close to tears himself. “Do you want to spend your life with me?”

“Of course I do,” she says, letting him press his palms to her cheeks. The rough pads of his thumbs catch against her skin as he wipes away her tears. “Please don’t doubt that I do. I’m just …I just want to protect you.”

“Protect me from what, Elide?” he says.

_Me_ , she wants to say. _Me and my selfishness._

The thought makes something cave within her chest and she can’t suppress the sob that tears through her throat. Or the next. And suddenly she's crying against her will, her shoulder shaking with the effort to stop.

She lets him encircle her in his arms, pulling her tight against him. He rubs her back with one hand and keeps the other on the nape of her neck, raining kisses on her hair.

“Elide?” he asks, his voice as gentle as his touch. “Where’s this coming from? What’s happened?”

“I…I…I had a nightmare.”

He pulls back enough to examine her face, realization dawning across his expression. “A month ago…the one where I died. I assumed it was during the war – at Anielle or the marshes – but it wasn’t, was it?”

She nods, trying to speak over the lump in her throat.

“Yes,” she says. “You were there…and my Uncle…and then – and then you died. Because I had agreed to it. Because I agreed to let you sign away your immortality.”

“Your uncle?” he repeats, his voice sharpening in a way that usually promises violence.

“He called me selfish.” She hates how small her voice sounds. Knows he hates it too, from the look he gives her, the soft growl growing in his throat. “And he’s right. You’ve been known to make…rash…choices for me. I don’t want you to make another _rash_ choice and regret it. Resent me for it.”

“Resent you?” he repeats, disbelief dripping from his voice.

“You could, Lorcan. If you began to age and hated it. If this…this _rest_ and _peace_ fades away to boredom, monotony. If you grow tired of being a husband a – a father. If you regret your choice, it will be _my_ fault for allowing it.”

His face hardens, only softening for a moment at the mention of the word _father_. He drops his hands to her shoulders again, as if she might run away.

“Elide. _Elide_. Do you really believe I could do that? Regret my life with you? Regret _fatherhood_ , if we were so lucky to…”

His words fade away with a sigh, unspoken hope written in his eyes.

“ _This_ , Elide, with you, is the last adventure I plan to have. Aging, fatherhood, loving you. It’s all I want. It’s all I could have ever asked for.”

“Will you feel that way when your hair goes gray?" Elide sniffs. "White? When you go _bald_?”

She blanches at the thought, despite herself, and Lorcan’s laugh rumbles through the room.

“It seems _you’re_ more opposed to that idea than I am,” he chuckles, running his hands down her arms to her hands.

“I just…I don’t want you to resent me,” she mutters, leaning forward into his chest, unable to look him in the face as she says something so vulnerable, so desperate. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

“Elide Lochan,” he says, wrapping his arms around her. He dips his head down, pressing his lips close to her ear, and whispers, “I couldn’t hate you if you shoved a knife in my heart.”

She tries to believe him, tries to let his words ease the weight pressing on her chest, but all she feels is fear. Fear and guilt and panic.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Her voice breaks over a sob, her fingers finding purchase in the fabric of his shirt. Clinging to him, to the warmth of his skin.

Ever so gently, Lorcan extricates himself from her embrace, holding her at arms’ length so he can look her full in the face as he says, “Do you want to know something I’ve never told you?”

She nods, surprised at the sudden change in topic, but glad for something to focus on, something to distract her from the sobs rattling in her chest.

“In that final battle with Maeve, right before Aelin killed her, she got into my mind. Rowan and Fenrys’s, too.”

“You’ve told me that before.”

“Yes, I’ve just never told you what she showed me.”

He grins at her surprised look.

“She showed me _you_. You as an elderly woman, on your deathbed. She thought it would break me. Show me that you and I could never be together. But you know what it did instead? It made me _happy_. Because in that face – _your_ face – I saw a life well-lived. With me. Together. I didn’t see a tragedy in aging or death – I saw a victory. Something to celebrate.” He runs a soft touch over her cheek. “I still do.”

“I never knew that,” she whispers, not trusting her voice to speak aloud.

“Elide,” he says, so gently it threatens to break her heart. “You were ready to die when you saved me at Anielle. You were ready to give up a life you’d barely started to live. You made that decision. Let me make mine.”

Elide looks into his eyes – his black, soul-piercing eyes that glint with some unknown light. Some people mistake it for wisdom, the type only gained through centuries of life, or maybe the cruelty of a time-honed killer. But Elide knows better.

It’s exhaustion. The weight of decades and decades and decades of loneliness and death bearing down on his shoulders.

“You have to swear to me, Lorcan,” she says, reaching for his hand and holding it in both of hers. “That you are completely, fully, satisfied with this life. With our life.”

“Elide, I am _impossibly_ satisfied with our life.”

“You’re satisfied with a life full of meetings?”

“Absolutely.”

“And state dinners?”

“I look forward to each one.”

She pinches one of his fingers, grinning at his obvious lie.

“What about when I wake you with morning sickness? And my stomach is covered with stretch marks? And I’m as large as a whale?”

Lorcan takes her face in his hands, his callouses rough against her cheeks. His smile is so wide it threatens to break his face in half. “I can’t wait.”

“And when your nights are full of screaming babies instead of sex? And your wife is grumpy and her body broken down? You won’t wish back your old life?”

“Elide, this is the stuff of dreams.”

“And when my wits are gone and my knuckles swollen and my breasts sag? You’ll be satisfied with your mortal life then?”

“Will you be satisfied with your life when my hair is white and my muscles fade and I can barely get out of bed by myself?”

Elide cocks her head, trying to imagine Lorcan’s black hair white, his tanned skin sallow and wrinkled. “I think you’d make an adorable old man.”

“And I think you’ll make a ravishing old woman,” he says, smirking at the very idea.

She sighs, fighting the usual breathlessness that his smile gives her. She leans forward, resting her forehead on his chest. He rubs her back, waiting for her to speak.

“Your happiness is everything to me, Lorcan,” she says finally. Making one last stand, one last attempt at convincing him. “The thought that I could ruin it…”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that,” he says. She smiles as she feels his voice rumble through his chest. “Because you are my happiness, Elide.”

She looks up at him, struck by the reverence, the gratitude in his eyes, and knows that he’s won. Has known it since that first look he gave her, but strangely she doesn’t feel like she’s lost. More like she’s been struck by a realization.

Somehow, even after all this time, he still manages to surprise her with just how much he loves her.

As if sensing her change of heart, he pulls her even closer, his dark eyes intent as they gaze into hers.

“Elide, how do you expect me to live without you? Without my heart?”

Lorcan never calls her pet names. He’s always preferred to show her affection through touch, not words. The one time they’ve spoken about it, he explained that her name is the sweetest word he can think of, that it needs no other adornments or decorations.

So she knows he means it when he calls her his heart.

And it breaks hers.

Surging up on her tip-toes, she wraps her arms around his neck and presses her lips to his. His arms immediately seize her, locking around her waist as if their lives both depend upon it. Her tears slide down his cheeks but he doesn’t seem to mind, not as his hands rove over her back, across her waist, down to the curve of her ass.

“So this is a yes, then?” he laughs against her lips when they pull apart, breathless. “I have your permission?”

“You never have to ask me for permission.”

“Then I’ll take it as your approval?” he laughs.

“Yes,” she sighs, surprised at the flutter of joy in her chest. “I’m sorry for this past month. I’m sorry for –”

“Never apologize to me,” he says, almost sharply. “Never. You were trying to protect me. Just, next time, don’t keep it a secret, all right?”

“All right,” Elide says, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I promise it, Lorcan.”

Lorcan slants his mouth to hers, but Elide pulls back before he can deepen the kiss. “But you have to promise me something, too.”

“Hm?” he says, a smirk playing at his lips.

“You have to tell me the truth,” she sighs as his lips return to her neck. “About…About whether you’re happy.”

“Now that you mention it, I am pretty unhappy at the moment,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her neck. Elide’s fingers dig into the muscles of his back as she struggles to follow the thread of her thoughts.

“Wh-Why?”

“Well, firstly, there’s absolutely no reason this dress is still keeping us apart,“ he says with a teasing nip at her earlobe.

She smiles and kisses the corner of his jaw before starting on the buttons along her bodice. Lorcan’s nimble fingers take over, quick with a year’s worth of practice.

“You know, Lorcan,” she says, almost panting with anticipation. “What you said earlier, I –”

But her words are cut off by a gasp as Lorcan slides her gown off her shoulders, his hands instantly finding her breasts, tracing teasing touches over the soft skin.

“You were saying?” he murmurs, and she can hear the wicked grin in his voice as he starts kissing along her shoulder, his thumbs circling her nipples in just the way she likes.

“I – I never want to – _oh, Lorcan_ – I never want to go – go back to – _my gods_ – to how I was before you – _can you please get this shirt off_?”

He chuckles at her clumsy attempts to undo the buttons of his shirt before leaning back just enough to tug it off. She sighs as her skin melts against his, his lips pressing against hers as his hands work her gown over her hips.

“Lorcan, I’m trying – trying to be – to be sweet –”

“So am I,” he breathes.

“I want to be with you forever,” she sighs, pressing her own kisses against his chest, his shoulder, his neck – whatever skin she can reach. “Forever and ever and ever and –”

“I get it,” he chuckles. “Now let me show you the perks of a life with me.”

With monumental effort, Elide tears her lips away long enough to look at him, cupping his face in her hands. “Forever and ever?”

“Forever and ever,” he laughs, a sweet grin on his face as he dips his head and claims her lips with his.

Elide melts into his arms, letting him pick her up and carry her to the bed, letting him kiss her and touch her and do everything else his five hundred years have taught him, so happy she could cry if she wasn’t too busy moaning against his skin. 

Hours later, laying in his arms, Elide traces letters into the golden skin of his chest. “Lorcan?”

“Hm?” She feels the sound rumble through his chest. His fingers run through her hair, patiently working out all the tangles he put there a few hours earlier.

Elide tries to find the words to sum up everything she wants to say – just how glad she is that he found her in Oakwald that fateful day, how grateful she is that Annieth led her to him on that battlefield in Anielle, how overwhelmingly, painfully happy she is.

He lifts his chin from where it rests on the top of her head to glance down at her, an easy smile on his lips. It’s hard to believe there was once a time when he _didn’t_ smile.

“As a child, I never imagined I’d have a home,” she says, the words hitching in her throat. His arm around her waist tightens, pulling her bare body closer to his. “But I have one now.”

“All those years in that tower, I bet you never thought the castle would one day belong to you,” he says, pulling his hand from her hair to stroke her cheek.

“No, not the castle,” she says.

He raises his brows, confused.

“Here.” She taps his chest.

Lorcan considers her for a long moment, something stirring in his dark eyes. “I never understood what home meant until I met you,” he says after a while, a new rasp in his voice.

Elide giggles, snuggling in closer to his chest and pressing kiss after kiss to his warm skin until he, too, laughs. That sound – like thunder rolling across a wide plain – and the knowledge that she will hear it for years and years to come, makes her chest ache. A tired, contented smile on her face, she tucks her head into the crook of his neck and lets herself drift to sleep.

Finally happy. Finally home.

Forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is anti-climactic, but I’m a sucker for healthy communication (especially with these two)! I might tack on an extra chapter about the ritual itself, but I’m working on some other fics right now so it will probably be a while.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! As always, any criticisms, reviews, or suggestions are appreciated!


End file.
